


The frontiers are my prison

by lanyon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe: Red Room, Canon Divergence, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1950, the Winter Soldier is part of the retrieval detail that finds a crashed plane in the Arctic. The sight of Steve Rogers’ body, still breathing, breaks the Winter Soldier’s programming and he is swiftly deactivated. </p>
<p>In 1951, the Winter Soldier is reactivated. He is treated with the respect befitting his current rank. He tours the facility and is pleased with progress that has been made. </p>
            </blockquote>





	The frontiers are my prison

**Author's Note:**

> + **Warnings** for violence, major character death, unhappy ending.

They’re found together, in the same cryo-chamber, arms around each other. They’re naked as the day they were born and they were born today, with an afterbirth of decade-old chemicals and old machinery and Stark shouting, _be careful, Dummy._

“Who the fuck are these guys?” asks Stark and Natasha goes pale. She’s on comms to Fury before Stark finishes speaking and then SHIELD is everywhere, picking up the bodies and carrying away the equipment before Stark can make grabby-hands and lay claim. 

.

The Winter Soldier stubs out his cigarette, exhaling smoke. He doesn’t flinch. The cells are supposed to be sound-proofed but he can hear the disturbance next door.

“He really doesn’t like to be locked up,” he says, softly. No wild animal takes kindly to incarceration. It doesn’t understand.

“He’s a war criminal,” says Maria Hill, arms folded. 

He’s a war-maker, thinks the Winter Soldier. He is the goddamned red and bleeding dawn and you’ve locked him in a room. 

“He doesn’t know that,” says the Winter Soldier. His smile is twisted. “He was just following orders.” 

Hill does not look impressed. She stands up. “Tell us how you got the shield.”

The Winter Soldier’s smile grows. “Tell you who we are, you mean.” He shrugs. “I can’t do that.”

The walls shake and his smile vanishes. “You really should let me see him,” he says.

Hill shakes her head. “Danvers can take care of him.” 

The Winter Soldier huffs out a laugh. “Yes, I suppose you would think that.”

.

In 1950, the Winter Soldier is part of the retrieval detail that finds a crashed plane in the Arctic. The sight of Steve Rogers’ body, still breathing, breaks the Winter Soldier’s programming and he is swiftly deactivated. 

In 1951, the Winter Soldier is reactivated. He is treated with the respect befitting his current rank. He tours the facility and is pleased with progress that has been made. 

He pauses next to a cryochamber and looks at the body inside, peaceful in death-like repose. His men (his captors; his handlers) hold their breath, collectively.

“A new one,” he remarks. “He looks strong.”

Everyone breathes out. 

“He is not ready to commence training yet, sir, but we expect that he will be a great asset.”

.

There are certain deeds that are unacceptable, even to men like those who run the Red Room. There are certain deeds that are illegal and immoral and even the Winter Soldier must be punished for them. 

The Winter Soldier has a weakness. His weakness is the tall American, who has no name, and who follows him around, so eager to please, with blood on his hands and on his face.

And, if the Winter Soldier is found in a long, stone-walled corridor, pressed against the wall by the tall American, kissing and touching and moaning sweet nothings to each other, they will be separated and the tall American will be put down, with enough barbiturates to fell a horse, and the Winter Soldier will be beaten and they will both be deactivated.

.

It is 1955. _Wake up_ , they tell him. _James Dean is dead_. 

He doesn’t know who they’re talking about. They put a gun in his hand and tell him to take the seventeen twenty-eight train to Leningrad. The train rattles on the tracks, tick-tocking like a clock, and he thinks he’s missing something. 

It’s raining in Leningrad. He kills his target in the shadow of the Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood and if it was good enough for a Tzar, it’s good enough for a mid-ranking government official who’s been selling secrets to the wrong people since 1949. 

There’s a girl, with wet red hair plastered against the side of her face. She is smiling. Her lips are scarlet and full. She tells him her name is Natalia Romanova and that she is a big fan of his work. She takes his arm and he does not think to stop her. 

They go to a hotel room. Their papers are in order. 

“Who are you, Comrade?” he asks. He thinks he’s missing something. 

She smiles and she is not so good an actress that he believes her. “A friend,” she says. She kisses him. “You taught me everything I know.” 

.

It is 1973. He is woken up. 

He taps on the glass. “Who is this?”

His men (his captors; his handlers) look at each other. 

“A - failed experiment, _Podpolkóvnik_.”

“Failed, how? We do not fail. Fix it.” He turns on his heel and walks away. 

.

The tall American is strapped to a table. Thick cables of wire are wrapped around his torso, and his arms, and his legs. He can’t move, aside from his head. 

“Why is he gagged?” asks the Winter Soldier.

“He won’t stop talking, sir.” 

The Winter Soldier walks to the head of the table. The tall American’s hair is wet with sweat and blood and clinging to his scalp, all burnished gold. The muscles in his neck are bunched up and tense, like those in his shoulders. The Winter Soldier runs his fingers down the American’s arm, tracing the bumps of the restraints and the tall American is trying to say something.

The Winter Soldier looks at his face and the tall American’s eyes open, wide and shocked, and -

“Glory be, sir,” says one of the scientists. “You’ve shut him up.”

The Winter Soldier rips off the gag. 

“B-Bucky?”

The Winter Soldier frowns. 

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” says the tall American. “What are you - what’s going on, Buck?”

The Winter Soldier cups the tall American’s chin and scrutinises his face and shakes his head. “I have no idea what he is saying,” he says. “Gag him. I expect him to speak sense next time I visit.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

.

“I don’t think you understand,” says Hill. “We can’t let you see him.”

“You’ve neutralised my arm and made it quite clear that there’s a kill order on me if I so much as look at someone funny. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“We know what happens when you and he work together.” Hill leans forward, resting her hands on the table. She lets out a breath. “We’ve got a room, filled to the ceiling with the reports of your atrocities.”

Atrocities. Such a big, bad word that means nothing to him. He sits back, as far as he is able, while his feet are chained. “Maybe you should go paperless, Deputy Director Hill.”

.

The Winter Soldier wakes up. His ears are ringing. The ground might be shaking. Glass and rubble cut into his skin. He has - he has no idea where he is. He rolls to sit up, leaning against a broken-down wall. 

A hand shoots down and he grabs it. 

“We have to get out of here, Lieutenant,” says a deep voice. 

He looks up, into the clear eyes of his commanding officer and lets out a slow, relieved breath. “Yessir,” he says. 

“Can you shoot?” asks the Captain and the Winter Soldier has to take a moment. His ears are ringing. The ground might be shaking. 

The safe house is miles away. They have achieved their objective and lit the match beneath a small scale revolution. The Winter Soldier does not pretend to understand how his employers’ interests can lie in a small African state. Drugs, he supposes. It is always drugs, these days. The Captain washes first, out of a bucket of questionable water that scythes through the grey film of dust that covers his arms and his chest and his thighs.

The Winter Soldier swallows thickly and the Captain throws him an amused grin. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll save some for you. Check the perimeter.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

When he comes back to the room, the Captain is on the only bed, barefoot, sitting up against the headboard and leafing through some paperwork. His shield, round and red and iconic, leans against the shabby bedside locker.

“Ten hours before extraction, Lieutenant. Get some rest. We don’t know when we’ll get the chance again.”

The Winter Soldier washes, quickly, and dresses and does not look to see if the Captain is looking at him. His ears are ringing. The ground - the ground - 

The Captain is looking at him, with a strange smile on his face. His eyes are flat, almost dull. _Yes_ , the Winter Soldier thinks. _This is how it goes, every time._ He could count it down. He drops his towel. The Captain blinks.

“Lieutenant, are you quite well?”

The Winter Soldier smiles. He reaches for the papers and sets them to the side. He gets onto the bed and straddles his Captain’s hips. He rests his forearms on the headboard behind the Captain’s head and he leans in to kiss him. His ears - 

There is a pause. There is always a pause. He thinks there is always a pause. 

The Captain kisses back. His hands run down the Winter Soldier’s back, skimming through water, until he’s clasping the Winter Soldier’s ass and hauling him closer, as though it’s possible to be closer. 

The Captain kisses deeply, hungrily, like he’s searching for something and the Winter Soldier hopes he never finds it. The Captain growls and the Winter Soldier knows. He knows to move, to get on his hands and knees, to wait, to tremble while the Captain undresses.

.

The collar of the dress uniform makes his neck itch. He tugs at it. 

“Sir,” says his aide, admonishingly. 

“Apologies, Dima,” he mutters. “Why _ballet_?”

“It’s not for us to judge, sir,” says Dmitri. 

It is 1948. The prima ballerina moves like nothing the Winter Soldier has seen before. He cannot tear his eyes away. He cannot see how his men (his captors; his handlers) smile at each other. 

His aide leans forward and touches his arm. “Would you like to meet her, sir. After?” 

.

It is the winter of 1952. It is cold. He doesn’t like the cold. He watches the new recruits spar, apart from one, who compulsively winds and unwinds his hand wraps. 

“Does he not fight?” 

“Everyone is scared of him, sir. He fights dirty. He fights _hard_.”

The Winter Soldier smiles. “I haven’t been tested in so long.” 

(The Winter Soldier does not know that he has only been awake for four hours; he is a captain in a secret branch of the Red Army.)

“Get up,” he says to the lonely recruit, whose eyes are flat and expressionless. “On your feet before a senior officer.”

There is no hurry about how the recruit rises; he does not scramble like he is afraid and that irritates the Winter Soldier. He moves like a caged animal, shoulders bunched as though he is expecting a blow. He can expect more than that.

The Winter Soldier barks at two recruits who are sparring in the centre ring. “Out!” He removes his jacket, his shoes, his tie, his belt. He rolls up his sleeves. 

The lonely recruit climbs into the ring after him and eyes his left arm. “Seems you have an unfair advantage,” he says. His head snaps up. “I hate bullies.”

The fight is glorious. The Winter Soldier spits out blood, and maybe a tooth, and the recruit’s nose bleeds, though he does not seem to bruise easy. The Winter Soldier has learned a thing or two. Every good teacher learns from his students. He twists, he raises his body, and now his thighs are locked around the new recruit’s neck. 

“Yield,” says the Winter Soldier. “ _Yield_.”

The recruit bites the inside of his thigh. The Winter Soldier jerks away and now he is pinned to the ground by the recruit, who easily outweighs him. 

“Yield,” says the recruit.

There is silence all around them and the Winter Soldier does all that he can. He throws his head back and laughs. It stuns the recruit and then, the rest of the room laughs too. 

The Winter Soldier gestures. “Up, up. You win.” He is smiling and it hurts his face. The recruit looks confused. 

“Gentlemen,” the Winter Soldier says, when they are on their feet. “A new champion, wouldn’t you agree?” He holds the new recruit’s arm up, as though he has just won a prize fight and he does not think how the recruit’s skin feels so warm beneath his fingers. 

Later, he finds the new recruit. He is not smiling now. 

“You made a fool of me,” he says. 

The recruit is sitting on the single bed that visibly curves beneath his weight. _He is American,_ they tell the Winter Soldier. _Like you._

_Not like me._ The Winter Soldier bares his teeth. 

“You made a fool of yourself,” says the new recruit. His eyes drop and he looks at the Winter Soldier’s crotch. He is brazen about it. “How’s the leg?” 

The Winter Soldier shivers. It is cold. He hates the cold. He can see gooseflesh on the recruit’s bare arms. 

“Why aren’t you in the barracks with the other men?” he asks. 

The recruit raises his eyes again. “Because I bite.”

He visits the training room every day. The lonely recruit winds and unwinds his handwraps. There is a circle around him. No one dares goes close. They tell the Winter Soldier that he broke a man’s arm this morning. 

“He is not being pushed,” says the Winter Soldier. “Pitch three against him and see how he does.”

It is carnage. The doctors do not mind. They have a prototype for a biometric leg and Cadet Dezhnyov’s leg cannot be saved. 

The next day, the Winter Soldier goes to the recruit. “We do not believe in God,” he says to him. “But you have quite the reputation, _Bes_. Come. Fight me. Do not kill me.” 

“That is my test?” asks the recruit. “ _Not_ to kill you?” 

“Control, _Bes_ , or you are no use to us.”

The recruit snorts but he stands up. His eyes are clearer today and, somehow, he still looks lost. 

“I am sorry if I kill you,” he says.

“Not as sorry as I’ll be,” says the Winter Soldier.

The ring is cleared before they get into it. Today, the fight is fluid. The recruit, _Bes_ , the Winter Soldier’s demon gets angry and the Winter Soldier grabs him in a headlock. It is ungainly, as though they are boys at play, and he hisses in his demon’s ear. “ _Control_ , you fool, or they will kill you.” 

The recruit goes slack. After a moment, the Winter Soldier releases him. 

“Good,” he says, softly, to the recruit, who is on his knees before him. “ _Good_ ,” he says, loud enough for the others to hear. “Extra vodka rations tonight, no?”

Extra vodka rations mean nothing to the Winter Soldier and, apparently, even less to the recruit. 

“I saved your life today,” says the Winter Soldier, leaning against the doorframe of the recruit’s room. 

The recruit snorts. “I had you on the ropes.”

“Certainly,” says the Winter Soldier and he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “You are disrespectful.”

The recruit stands up and he does stand to attention so beautifully. The Winter Soldier steps closer and runs a hand up the recruit’s chest. He is warm, so warm. The recruit is trembling. 

The Red Room teaches that sex is a legitimate weapon. This is nothing they have taught. Men with men; it is not done, not that the Winter Soldier can remember. 

“Do not bite,” he whispers and he pushes down on the recruit’s shoulders until he is on his knees, unbuckling the Winter Soldier’s belt. 

And so it goes. The Winter Soldier spars with his demon. He pretends that he knows what he is doing when he goes to _Bes_ ’s room at night. He is not so foolish as to think he is not being watched. 

They kiss and, yes, his demon bites, and then the Winter Soldier gets on his hands and knees and his demon takes him. 

Perhaps, had it been the other way around, it might have been allowed to continue. He is half-asleep, his head on his demon’s chest, when they come for them both. 

_Eighteen days_ , they say. _This time. They lasted eighteen days._

.

“What’s your secret, bub?” asks the guy with the hair and the impressive claws. 

“Secret?” asks the Winter Soldier. 

“Nat says you could control him. How?”

The Winter Soldier smiles and swallows down the heart-hammering fear. He has never gone so long without him. “I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”

There is posturing and there are the claws, against his throat. The Winter Soldier knows that he can’t be killed. “Down boy,” he gasps. The claws retract.

“You wanna know how?”

The walking hairball nods.

“Sex.”

.

It is 1963. They put a gun in his hand. He is sent to England. This is what he knows. _She loves you_ is everywhere. 

“Let’s go for a walk down Whitehall,” she says in his ear. He smiles and they kiss, in long coats and hats. 

British politicians have weaknesses; ale and beautiful women. The Winter Soldier shoots this one in a back alley when he follows Natalia out of the pub. 

“As though you are good enough for her,” says the Winter Soldier, zealous as he shoots him square between the eyes. He reaches down and takes out the man’s keys. It is the work of an evening to let themselves into the politician’s townhouse. The Winter Soldier shoots the dog and they rifle through the politician’s papers to find what they need. He has been selling secrets to the Soviet Union for years except, lately, his secrets have been less than reliable and less than contributory. 

“He has a mistress,” says Natalia. “And a wife.”

“You know what to do,” says the Winter Soldier. 

Later, when Natalia has washed herself clean of blood, and they have fucked on the chintz bedspread in their cosy hotel, the Winter Soldier is content. Fresh orders come through. Two high-ranking civil servants need to be reminded of their loyalties. The Winter Soldier is ordered not to make contact with the other operatives in England and, with his arm around Natalia, he wonder why he would bother. 

They commence surveillance. They play house in their cosy hotel, posing as American newlyweds. The Winter Soldier holds the Black Widow’s hand and kisses her knuckles, adoring and amused. He thinks he might be missing something.

They fuck every night. 

They fuck every night until the door is broken down by a goddamned hound of _hell_. A big guy, American, yellow hair, spitting fury starts shouting at them, at _him_. He’s carrying a round shield, painted red (he thinks it’s paint). 

“Who the fuck are you?” is all the Winter Soldier can ask before Natalia launches herself at the intruder. 

“He’s one of ours, James. He’s -”

“Not supposed to be here,” says the Winter Soldier and he doesn’t know how this guy even _knows_ they’re here but someone will pay. Natalia is flung against the wall with a meaty thud. 

“This is _her_?” shouts the American and Natalia’s already on her feet and she’s sidling along the wall, grabbing a robe. 

“Keep him occupied, James,” she says, turning her head to spit blood at the floor. “I’ll radio for backup.”

“Occupied?” the Winter Soldier asks and the American is closing in on him. His eyes are flat and expressionless. 

“You never came for me,” says the American and his voice is cracking and creaking with some kind of emotion that the Winter Soldier can’t recognise. “You said. You _said_.” 

“What did I say?” asks the Winter Soldier, holding his hands out but the American keeps coming closer.

“You said we’d leave.” The American reaches out. The Winter Soldier is ready to strike but the fingers of the American’s right hand lock with the fingers of his left hand and the Winter Soldier can only look down, dumbly. The American drops the shield with a thunk.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, shakily. 

“Who are _you_?” asks the American. “You -” He’s stepping closer and his other hand is on the Winter Soldier’s chest now, the side of his neck, cupping his cheek. For a moment, the Winter Soldier thinks that the American is going to kiss him but then the American’s forehead is on his shoulder and the Winter Soldier raises his hand to clasp the back of his neck. 

Natalia returns in short order, accompanied by two more operatives. One’s carrying some kind of injection and, while the American is quivering in the Winter Soldier’s arms, the needle is jammed into the side of his neck. With a quiet whimper, the American becomes deadweight. 

“Who is he?” asks the Winter Soldier as the two heavies take the American from him. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re calling an onsite abort. Moscow wants you home.”

.

They are sent to a prison where the governor does bad things to the inmates. Department X would not normally interfere but it seems he’s trying to recreate their ends, without justifying his means. 

The Winter Soldier likes his partner. He’s American. Some of the others call him _Bes_ but he has been perfectly personable in all their time together. Oh, he is vicious and the Winter Soldier would prefer if his kills were a little tidier but the American’s methods are useful when fear is the desired effect. The American is a harbinger of destruction. 

They share a room. It has been three nights. (Three nights ago, the Winter Soldier was activated.) 

It is 1959. The walls are thick. The American smiles at him, though his eyes are flat and expressionless. 

On the fourth night, the Winter Soldier is on his hands and knees on the floor and the American is inside him, pounding in harder and deeper with every thrust and the Winter Soldier does not try to muffle his cries. 

He wonders, vaguely, if other partners do this. He has not had another partner. He does not want another partner. He rolls onto his back and wraps his arms and legs around the American and kisses him, inviting the American to bite. 

“I think,” says the American. “I think I love you.” 

The Winter Soldier lies down, his fingers carding through the American’s damp hair and he smiles up at the ceiling. 

The walls are thick and the room is well-sealed, so that when an anaesthetic gas is pumped in, it is swiftly effective and the Winter Soldier and his demon are deactivated. 

.

“What did you give him?” He looks through the reinforced plastic. 

“Some kind of cocktail of long- and short-acting benzodiazpines. He went into respiratory arrest, first time we tried it, but the combination is right, for now.”

The Winter Soldier’s left arm is still neutralised, and it’s cuffed to his right arm, behind his back. 

“Can I go in?” he asks, softly.

“Not until you’re more cooperative.” 

He rests his forehead against the plastic and lets out a slow breath. “What do you need to know?”

.

It is 1976. It is one of the hottest summers on record. 

“Run away with me,” says his demon; that devil on his shoulder. 

They are in Paris. There is a pile of bodies around them and a slowly-growing pool of blood at their feet. The Winter Soldier’s shirt sticks to his back and then _Bes_ is pressed against him, laughing into his mouth. His shield is on his back, like a blood-stained target.

“We’ve done what they told us to,” he says. He runs his hands up the Winter Soldier’s arms. “Run away with me.”

“And where would we go?” The Winter Soldier kisses him. 

“Greece,” says his demon.

“You’ve been thinking about this.”

His demon hums. “Yes, a little.” 

“It’s madness to run,” says the Winter Soldier. “They’ll never allow it.”

“That’s why it’s running.” 

The Winter Soldier kisses him again. 

“I’ll look after you,” says his demon. He is smiling. His eyes are flat and expressionless. 

“We need names,” says the Winter Soldier. “Papers.”

They travel by luck and by reputation. They steal a blue Citroën SM and his demon laughs because he does not know how to drive. They make it to Italy. The Winter Soldier is on his hands and knees every night. His back arches like a bowstring and _Bes_ bites his shoulders. 

They lie in an olive grove. His ears are ringing. The ground is shaking. No. He fumbles for his demon’s hand. He knows who Hamlet is, and Claudius.

Their passports say that they are Frenchmen, Fabian and Christian. They are cousins. They are traveling together, seeing the world. 

He is on his hands and knees, fingers clawing at the dew-damp soil. 

It has been three weeks since they ran. They will never stop looking over their shoulders. Sometimes, the Winter Soldier curls up so tight against his demon’s back that they might as well be the same person. 

The Winter Soldier thinks this is love: a heatwave and bruises on his shoulders and bite-marks on his collarbones and sometimes his demon shouts at the sun or shouts at the moon and the Winter Soldier has to clamp his hand over his mouth until he subsides. 

“I love you,” says his demon, in every language. They negotiate passage on a boat to Greece and when they reach Kefalonia, they do not stop. The Winter Soldier is on his hands and knees, sharp white sand embedded under his nails. 

Greece brings hope. The Winter Soldier has never known hope. His demon still shouts, sometimes, stomping on the beach, screaming his nightmares and shaking uncontrollably. 

The Winter Soldier holds him, pressed tight against his back. It has been five weeks since they ran. 

His demon kisses him, desperately and tearfully, and whispers that he’d follow him anywhere. 

The Winter Soldier smiles, and strokes back his hair, and whispers, “Not if I’m following you.”

His demon smiles back; it is watery and shaky and they will follow each other, in ever-decreasing circles. 

When they are torn apart, it is brutal and ruthless. The Winter Soldier’s right shoulder is dislocated and his demon roars as they are dragged further from each other. He is deactivated, with a gun butt to the head. They are both deactivated.

.

It is 1950. He has an important mission. She is beautiful. She is to be trained. 

Her name is Natalia. He doesn’t wonder if that’s her real name. It suits her, nevertheless. He has never known anyone like her. He is certain of it. 

.

“What has Natalia told you?”

“It wouldn’t be corroboration if you just nod,” says Hill. 

The Winter Soldier shrugs. “I don’t know what to say. He’s my partner. Always has been, least as far as I can remember.”

“And how far is that?”

“How far is what?”

“How far can you remember?”

The Winter Soldier shrugs again. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He bites his lip. “Can I see him?” 

“What you said to Logan, before-” Hill’s gaze flickers away and then flickers back. “About your relationship with the other guy.”

“Partners, I told you.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the Russians would’ve been so accepting-”

The Winter Soldier slams his right hand down on the table. “They weren’t, lady, can’t you see? They shoved us in a goddamned refrigerator for it.” 

.

Natalia stands next to him. His arm is around her waist. They admire their work. It is art. An entire family, slaughtered, and lined up next to each other and the littlest one said roll over. 

“As always,” the Winter Soldier murmurs. “It’s been a pleasure.”

She smiles coolly. “As always.”

They leave the house and walk away, the rapidly-falling snow covering their tracks. 

“You finished?” asks their third. The Winter Soldier’s men say he’s a force of nature. He carries a goddamned shield, like that World War II American hero. 

“Right on time,” says Natalia. 

“What’s your name, soldier?” asks the Winter Soldier.

“Don’t have one,” says the man, who’s tall and blonde and wearing white. He’s breathing fast. His eyes are flat and expressionless. They go back to their hotel room, all three of them. The Winter Soldier kisses Natalia. His blood is up. His blood is. 

He is thrown across the room. 

“No, _bes_ , no!” cries Natalia and the Winter Soldier figures this guy’s jealous except he’s walking towards the Winter Soldier and he looks troubled. He picks him up, lifting him clear off the ground with one hand.

“You’re a strong one, then,” says the Winter Soldier, his left hand curling around the man’s bicep.

It is 1957. 

The man presses his nose against the Winter Soldier’s neck and it is entirely unexpected. 

“What are you doing?” asks the Winter Soldier. His ears are ringing. The ground is shaking. He can feel the man’s lips on his skin and his knees are weak. 

Natalia uncurls from the bed. “I’m going for a walk,” she says, which is standard code for checking the perimeters. “Twenty minutes.”

The Winter Soldier nods and tries to choke out an affirmative.

The Winter Soldier is on his hands and knees and the bed creaks alarmingly. 

“I don’t know you,” he whispers against the man’s lips. His neck stings and there is a sluggish trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. 

Natalia returns and not a word is said.

They are both deactivated the next day.

.

_We have a present for you_ , they say. It might be Hill or Stark or Fury himself. 

The present comes in the form of a glowing blue cube. His ears are ringing. The ground is shaking. 

When he wakes up, Bucky’s first word is, “Steve?”

.

He’s chaos, they tell the Winter Soldier. He cannot be controlled. 

They try to reason with the Winter Soldier. Then they try to hurt him. 

He smiles, blood on his teeth. 

It is 1993. The Black Widow defected long ago and now there is no one capable and willing to put down the Red Room’s demon.

.

It is not that difficult to get him out. Natalia helps. She has a debt to pay. Her devotion to checks and balances unnerves Bucky but he cannot think on that right now. 

He goes into the hospital wing of the detention centre and his knees go weak. His ears are ringing. The ground is shaking. 

“Steve,” he says, or means to say. Natalia deals with the intravenous tubes and presses some buttons and whispers that he should wake up. 

Steve’s eyes open. They are flat and expressionless. Bucky has never been with him when he’s been activated before. Steve turns his head towards Bucky and now there is something open, _here_ and curious.

“What’s my mission?” he asks, in Russian, his voice almost inaudible. 

“Do you know who I am?” asks Bucky, his hand on Steve’s cheek. 

Steve frowns. There is a glimmer of something in his eyes. “You - you are the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky shakes his head and swallows thickly. “I’m - I’m yours.”

“What’s my mission?”

.

It is 1969. It has been two days. The Winter Soldier is on his hands and knees.

.

“You’re telling us that you’re Bucky Barnes and that - that -?”

Bucky lets out a slow breath. Everything is clear, crystalline. The corners in the room are sharp. He can see the hairs on the back of his right arm. The joins in his left arm are clean and smooth and he can see each rivet. 

His accent has changed. He can hear it. “That’s Steve Rogers.” He swallows. “That’s Steve.”

.

Steve is heavy against him. Bucky remembers this. How it would always take an hour or more to move like a regular person following reactivation. At least Steve is holding on. 

“You don’t have to do this on your own, James,” says Natalia. “I can get you out.”

Bucky shakes his head. “We don’t have time. You know - you know what they want to do.”

.

SHIELD wants to use the Tesseract to restore Steve Rogers’ memories. There is some fantasy that they can restore Captain America, that they can erase more than half a century’s worth of havoc and destruction. 

Bucky can see it in Fury’s eyes. All is not lost except that all is lost. 

He tries to tell them. He tries to say that Steve won’t be able to live with himself. He tries to tell them about the shakes and the nightmares, every time Steve was more than three weeks out. He tries to tell them but they will not listen because they have repainted Captain America’s shield and they are brimming with anticipation. 

.

Steve presses his nose against Bucky’s throat. Bucky can feel his lips.

“Where are you taking him?”

Bucky flashes Natalia a smile. “I’ll figure it out”

.

It is 1943. It is 1944. It is a happy new year. Bucky presses his lips to Steve’s because Agent Carter isn’t here. 

.

“Let’s run away,” whispers Steve. They are sitting on the beach; Steve is in Bucky’s arms, nestled close. He is still not walking unaided. They cannot run. Not this time.

It is so very cold. Bucky’s coat is wrapped around them both. He cannot feel his face in the winter wind.

“Yes,” whispers Bucky. He bows his head and presses numb lips to Steve’s mouth and Steve smiles instantly. His eyes are flat and expressionless.

“Where will we go?” asks Bucky. 

“Greece,” says Steve. “I think - have we been there before?”

Bucky’s heart is thumping against his chest. “Yes,” he whispers. “Years ago. You and me.” 

“I,” says Steve. He closes his eyes. “I’m in love with you.”

“I know, _angel_ ,” says Bucky. 

“‘m not very good at keeping secrets.”

Bucky laughs and it’s strange that it should feel so like crying. “You are the actual worst, buddy.” 

Steve’s frowning. “Sir?” 

Oh god-

“Sir, I can’t feel my-”

Steve turns his head and his eyes slip closed. Bucky takes a deep breath and slides the Makarov out of the pocket of his coat. He presses the muzzle against Steve’s temple.

He can’t make himself say the words. He pulls the trigger.

.

His ears are ringing. 

.

It is 2014. The Winter Soldier throws a crumpled up ball of paper at Hawkeye’s head. Natasha rolls her eyes. 

“It’s like middle school in here,” says Coulson. 

“Sorry, Principal Coulson,” chorus Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier. 

He listens to the briefing. He looks around the room. He frowns. There is something missing. (He has been awake for four hours; he is a high-ranking SHIELD agent, with a team, led by Captain Marvel.)

The ground is shaking.

**Author's Note:**

> +Thanks to **haipollai** who should pretty much get a co-writing credit for this and to **beardsley** who made it worse. You guys are wonderful.  
>  +Title from Leonard Cohen's _The Partisan_.  
>  + _Bes_ is the Russian for demon.


End file.
